


bite the hand

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Sort of. Like. Implied/Referenced Desolation Tim), Angst, Bisexual Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Desolation Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Rough Kissing, Yarmouth Angst (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: It’s funny how things can always get worse. Every time your life hits rock bottom, well, never fucking fear, there could always be a landslide! You could always fall into a ravine and hit every sharp rock along the way and end up with every limb shattered wishing you were dead!If, in this metaphor, that landslide was an act of God, then Tim Stoker is going to fucking kill God.(The night before the Unknowing, Tim has to share a room with Jon, and ends up thinking way too much)
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 125





	bite the hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone I am drowning in my own Tim Stoker feelings. Hope you enjoy!

Tim thinks about maybe walking to the beach. This could be his last night alive, after all, and he thinks there’d be some comfort in seeing the ocean a final time. That is, until he remembers  _ oh, right, the ocean’s evil too _ . The ocean and just about everything fucking else. 

He resents having to share a room with Jon. Resents that they were collectively too cheap to just get another room. Resents watching Jon smoke outside the window and remembering how they used to be, before everything got fucked. 

Strange. He used to divide his life into The Before Times and After Danny. Danny dying was the obvious inflection point, the clear winner for the moment in his life where everything went wrong. Now he thinks of realizing Sasha was gone as--well, a strong contender, at least, if not the outright frontrunner. It’s funny how things can always get worse. Every time your life hits rock bottom, well, never fucking fear, there could always be a landslide! You could always fall into a ravine and hit every sharp rock along the way and end up with every limb shattered wishing you were dead!

If, in this metaphor, that landslide was an act of God, then Tim Stoker is going to  _ fucking _ kill God.

Jon comes back into the room, the smell of smoke drifting in behind him like a really shit lung cancer-y ghost, and sits on his bed, legs crossed, shoes on. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to meditate, and Tim really wants to just  _ hit  _ him. It probably wouldn’t be as satisfying as he’d like, but he’s itching to do  _ something _ , to rip something apart, and if he turns it all inward he’s going to explode. And he can’t explode, not until tomorrow.

But he can’t hurt Jon either. Not just because he’s a monster boss and it might all bounce back. More because he always really  _ liked _ Jon, and he at least knows he can trust that Jon’s himself, and because there’s still flashes of the guy he used to be--the guy Tim actually liked--in there somewhere.

Still, just--just one good punch? Just for good measure? For Sa--

“If you’re going to hit me, I’d rather you just did it,” Jon says, and he sounds bone-tired. It’s enough to almost get a twinge of sympathy out of Tim. Almost.

“Don’t do that,” Tim says, and as always, lately, he’s surprised by how flat his voice comes out. He sounds like he’s already dead.  _ Did  _ he die? Did his heart just not get the memo? Nothing feels impossible anymore.

“I can’t help it. You sort of...burn.”

Not the first time someone’s said that to him, weirdly enough. 

*

Sasha’s lying on her back on the floor of Tim’s flat, fingers pressed to her temples like a kid’s movie mystic, eyes squeezed shut. They’re both high, and Tim can’t keep a few extremely dainty giggles from escaping him, which makes Sasha snort.

She collects herself by waving her arms around, which only makes Tim spasm with silent laughter, affection for her making his heart swell so big it’s gonna explode into a huge gorey mess all over his insides.

“Alright, shut up, Timothy, I’m opening my third eye,” she says, and he takes a shaky breath, attempting to recover.

“Okay, alright, I’m ready,” he says, nodding solemnly, like she can see him. “What is my true aura, wise sage.”

“Wise sage is a redundancy,” Sasha says, slitting an eye open to glare at him. “Weren’t you in publishing?”

“Even publishers get fucked up and just say words sometimes. To be fair, our job is like...dealing with  _ other _ people’s words.”

“Did you like it?” Sasha asks, suddenly very genuine, opening both her eyes. It’s a radical tone shift, and one Tim isn’t ready for, because  _ yeah, I loved it _ is what would end up pouring out of him if he didn’t dry swallow it hard. 

“I came  _ all _ the way out to my living room and provided drugs for the Magical Mystical Sasha James because she promised me a reading, I would like to get said reading, thank you,” Tim says.

“Such a demanding audience,” Sasha says, sighing. “Fine.” She closes her eyes again, stretches her arms out, and wiggles her fingers. “Right. Okay. I’m sensing--I’m sensing a  _ deeply _ sexy presence--”

Tim snorts, hugging himself and trying not to think about her legs wrapped around his waist, the way her hair felt against his face, the smell of little kid watermelon shampoo--that wasn’t supposed to happen, even as glad as he was--as they both were, he’s pretty sure--that it was happening at the time.

“--Timothy Stoker, if you continue interrupting me, I shall have to curl up and log roll back into my hermit cave, and you won’t get to hear about your inner truth.”

“Oh, I  _ really _ wanna see you log roll up a mountain,” Tim says.

“As you fucking will! If you don’t shut up!” Sasha semi-shrieks.

“Okay, okay, I relent, I’ll sew my mouth shut like Garbage Deadpool. I will be the Merc with No Mouth, just for you, ma’am.”

“Making me think about that movie is giving me  _ rancid _ vibes, Timothy, you’re screwing with my reading.”

Tim makes a tight-lipped noise, like he’s trying to speak through a forced-shut mouth, and Sasha snorts.

“Alright,” she says. “Okay, yes, a sexy presence, indeed, but that’s not all, is it. There’s a  _ darkness _ to you.” She says that theatrically, like a joke, but the joke doesn’t quite land, and sort of falls to the ground between them, heavy and dark.

“Do tell,” Tim says, and he wants it to be light, but it comes out flat.

“You...you sort of burn,” she says, and any pretense of joking is gone. She means that, in whatever capacity. He can tell.

“Burn?” Tim asks.

“It’s like. Anger and love all mixed together in a blender, except it’s so hot it’s melting the blender.” She sounds almost like she wants to cry, now, and it makes Tim feel vaguely nauseous with guilt, that he’s somehow upset her like this without even trying.

“Oh,” Tim says, because he’s not sure what else you say to that. He loves her, and apparently she’s pained by his presence. That’s fine. He can take emotional hits like a champ. It would probably be a lot easier if he couldn’t smell her shampoo, even at this distance, if he couldn’t remember how her skin felt, if--

Well, that’s fine. Some part of him really does believe that eventually, against all odds, they’ll end up together. Something good has to happen to him  _ sometime _ . To both of them. There’s always a chance.

*

“What do you mean, I burn?” Tim asks Jon, flat, again. He’s sure the answer won’t be as diplomatic as Sasha’s was, all those years ago, but he’s still curious, even though most of his curiosity is deadweight in his chest and never gets him anything good.

“I don’t quite know,” Jon says, shrugging somewhat apologetically. “You just-- _ do _ . Even when I close my eyes, there’s an afterimage of you. Like a burning silhouette.”

“Great,” Tim says, sighing.

“Tim, I’m--”

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ try to apologize again,” Tim says, pushing himself off the bed, restless energy shooting through every vein and artery. He can’t stay in here, not with Jon, not wanting to break something as badly as he does. Jon watches him, eyes sad and hungry.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and Tim pulls his shoulders to his ears, reflexively, defensively.

“Not any of your business,” he spits back.

“Tim--” Jon starts, and Tim all but snarls back, leaning in close to Jon’s face. He hates their mirror image scars, hates Jon’s gorgeous eyes, hates the idle fantasies he used to have back in research, hates--

*

Jon is desperately trying to read an article about a potential ghost manifestation in a nightclub in Manchester, and Tim and Sasha aren’t letting him, because they’ve already exchanged several texts about the article, think it’s cool, and don’t want to listen to Jon’s little scoffs and mutters of  _ this is absurd _ and  _ these people were just high _ and etcetera, on and on, all of Jon’s ‘I think the weird little man doth protest too much’ comments.

They talk across him and spam him with emails so his computer will ding endlessly and toss each other pens back and forth across him, and sure, if Tim’s honest, maybe he’s doing all this because Jon’s really fucking cute when he gets this frustrated.

Eventually, he hits his breaking point, slams the lid of his computer shut, and sort of growls at Tim. He always targets Tim with his little outbursts, because he and Sasha seem to, for lack of a better word,  _ vibe _ on some level. It’s not that he and Tim don’t like each other, but there’s no pretense of mutual understanding. They coexist, but they aren’t symbiotic. What’s the one where two things just sort of tolerate each other? Commensalism? No, one of them would have to get something out of it for it to be commensalism.

(Tim hates both his coworkers for turning his train of thought into a really shit trivia night that never ends.)

He sort of starts to tune Jon’s lecture out, because they’re always almost exactly the same. Little stuffy old man  _ get off my lawn _ bullshit. 

Except this one--isn’t? Oh--oh god, is Jon--he looks like he’s on the verge of tears, and Sasha gives Tim a wide-eyed look, and Tim tunes the radio in his brain back to reality.

“--focusing is--it’s a  _ difficult _ thing for me, I either can’t do it at all or I can’t do anything else, and when you--when you  _ try _ to mess with me it’s…” He trails off and sighs, and Tim feels his heart crack a little, feels that telltale sinking sensation that’s some mix of  _ oh fuck, I’m in love again _ and  _ oh fuck, I’m an asshole _ .

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Sasha says, softly. 

“Yeah,” Tim says, staring at the desk, because he’s gonna feel overwhelming guilt if he looks at Jon. “I didn’t--it was meant to be--”

“I know, but it’s not,” Jon says. “I’m not--I’m not  _ mad _ , I’m sorry that I can’t just be--”

“ _ No _ ,” Tim and Sasha both say at exactly the same time, in exactly the same inflection.

“Alright,” Jon says, half-smiling, and Tim’s heart  _ shudders _ at the sight. He truly hates that the second he sees vulnerability in someone, actually starts to see them as a person, he falls. The light crush and general fondness  _ turns _ . It’s absolutely wretched, loving people for their ugly, messy, humanity. 

“We promise to be better,” Sasha says, cheerily. “If we don’t want you to talk shit about cool ghost stuff, we’ll just tell you instead of performing psychological warfare.”

“I feel like that should’ve been where you started,” Jon says, but he’s smiling, so, good.

“We’re a highly specialized psi-ops duo, though, actually,” Tim says, scratching his eyebrow, trying to look casual as he attempts desperately to keep Jon smiling. 

“It’s true,” Sasha says, nodding solemnly. “This is just our day job. You got caught in the middle of a Mr. and Mrs. Smith situation. Is that--I didn’t actually see that movie. But I’m Brad Pitt.”

“Oh, I’m  _ definitely _ Angie,” Tim says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jon says. Tim’s heart swells, and he can’t help but beam at Jon. He’s simultaneously the luckiest and unluckiest fucker in the world, that the job he took for the sole purpose of obsessive revenge landed him in love with two different goddamn weird nerds.

Sometimes, things get better. Marginally. Sometimes.

*

His face is centimeters away from Jon’s, and he’s frozen there, for some reason, stuck in Jon’s eyes. They’re not--they used to be sort of...tired, yeah, always, but soft. Sort of startled, sometimes, even through the exhaustion, like life was always surprising him.

He didn’t realize until right now that he had such deep feelings about Jon’s eyes. Don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Until it turns indescribable and inscrutable and starving and all-seeing. 

“I fucking wish you were  _ you _ ,” Tim says, turning away, a growl of frustration escaping him.

“I feel the same,” Jon says, and Tim can hear the sad half-smile in his voice, that touch of soft fondness. “About myself, and you as well.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim says, and all the fight goes out of him, all the desire to leave the room and breathe fresh air for the last time. He sinks to the filthy carpet of the room and sits down hard.

Jon uncrosses his legs, slides off the bed, and sits next to Tim, close enough that their shoulders press together, and Tim suddenly doesn’t have the energy to even flinch away. It’s comforting to feel another person breathe next to him. It’s been so long since he’s touched someone, since someone held him. It’s been since--

*

It’s hard not to love Martin Blackwood, even through the very heavy lead apron of numbness that’s been draped heavy over Tim’s entire being since--since he realized Sasha wasn’t Sasha and never would be again. Rage past the point of rage. Pain that overloads your nerves so hard you stop feeling anything at all.

Martin is gentle and sweet and insistent and it makes Tim even angrier, somehow, more on his behalf than at him. Martin’s kind and infallibly considerate and forces his way into Tim’s flat and makes him tea and tells him he has to eat and Tim can’t get the nagging doubt out of his mind that maybe it’s not Martin at all.

It probably is. No monster would have the patience for this, for the long, stony silences, for pulling Tim off the ground when he finds him too drunk to stand, for--for any of this. Any of this hell his life has become.

Calling it a ‘life’ is generous, honestly. He researches endlessly and obsessively, doesn’t sleep, just spends hours on Reddit and deep web forums and anywhere at all that he can find information on the Circus, on Grimaldi, on--on the thing that took Sasha. He steals statements from the Archives, which is easy, with Jon gone. No one else really gives a shit. Then, when he gets too exhausted, he drinks himself into unconsciousness, because he can’t sleep any other way, and inevitably has hellish dreams until he wakes up a few hours later, still drunk. Rinse, repeat, over, and over, and over.

Martin’s at least a break in the cycle, a wedge in the revolving door. He keeps coming back, and Tim  _ hates _ him for it.

One day, Tim blinks into consciousness sprawled out on his couch. It’s not really  _ waking up _ anymore, since it’s all a nightmare, awake or asleep. It’s just a change in state. Martin’s sitting at Tim’s tiny kitchen table, writing in a notebook, and Tim must have made some kind of groaning noise, because he looks over immediately, reminiscent of a startled deer.

“Hi,” Martin says, trying to smile, and Tim’s anger surges.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, forcing himself to sit up, even though the act makes him want to vomit, head pounding.

“Uh...keeping you company?” Martin asks, with a tiny shrug. “Seeing if you need anything?”

“ _ Why _ ?”

“Because I care about you?” Martin’s voice is tiny, barely a squeak, and if things were marginally less fucked, Tim would feel that horrible writhing guilt for upsetting him.

“Look, I’m going to give you some really solid advice here, and I hope you listen: stop. For your own good. Stop caring about me, stop--coming in here and checking on me, just stop.”

“But--”

“No! There’s no  _ but _ , Martin!” Tim says. “I don’t get why you just fucking  _ run _ at the monsters. Jon, now me, it’s--you don’t have self-respect! Why don’t you have any self-respect? What is  _ wrong _ with you?”

Martin gasps, a small, wounded sound, eyes wide. “Nothing-- _ nothing _ is wrong with me. Caring about people isn’t a  _ defect _ , Tim,” he snaps back, after a moment. 

“I mean, no, not in the grand societal sense, sure,” Tim says. “On a personal level, caring about people is--it’s self-harm. It’s a fucking flaw of evolution. Caring about people gets you  _ hurt _ , and it’s odd that we haven’t adapted past the need to.”

“That’s a really dark way to live,” Martin says, and there’s still some irritation in his tone, but it’s softer. Fonder. His eyes sparkle a bit. 

“Does that shock you?” Tim asks, flatly, and Martin gives a small headshake, stands up, and tentatively walks over to the couch. He sits down next to Tim, puts an arm around him, and when he encounters no resistance, pulls Tim into a tight, cushy, patented Martin Blackwood Hug. Tim closes his eyes and settles into it, trying to enjoy the moment without crying like a bitch and ruining it.

“I know you’re not gonna be okay, but--you could try harder,” Martin says. “You should. I can’t lose you too.”

Tim’s heart pangs, somehow, under all the layers of emotional callouses he’s built up. “Don’t worry,” he says, muffled by Martin’s sweater. “I refuse to die until--” He doesn’t finish the sentence, because he remembers Martin doesn’t know about Danny, and that’s not something he wants to dredge back up, particularly. “I refuse to die.”

“Good.”

*

He twitches like he's going to wrap an arm around Jon, but he doesn’t. Even if he can’t remember exactly why he hates him right in this moment, he’s not going to do that. He can’t go that far. He can’t shatter the icy, brittle wall of tension between them. He doesn’t want Jon to have any power over him.

“I’m glad Martin’s not here,” he says, after a long moment of silence, remembering Martin holding him. He really misses touch. He thought a lot of times in the last year about trying to find someone to fuck him senseless, but it wouldn’t have been right. Anonymity doesn’t work for Tim. He doesn’t use people like that. Besides, he’d probably fall in love with them. 

“Me too,” Jon says, with a sigh. He pushes his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Better for him to be safe.”

“Can’t trust him not to lick the C4,” Tim says, trying to at least smirk. It’s  _ almost _ a joke, right? Is he capable of those anymore?

“He deserves better than--than--” Jon sighs, doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. Tim’s surprised Jon picked up on Martin’s feelings for him. Sure, you could see them from outer space, but Jon’s always been shockingly blind for an eye monster.

“He certainly does,” Tim says, bitterly. Referring to himself, too.

“Tim, I--” Jon drops the glasses, scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry. I know you hate that. But I--I  _ wish _ \--I wish we--”

Tim doesn’t want him to finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to know what Jon wants, or wanted, or--he doesn’t want Jon to suddenly turn far too human again. Not now. He kisses Jon quiet, hand braced hard on the back of his head, his shoddily pulled-back hair tangling in Tim’s fingers. Tim bites Jon’s lip hard, pushes, doesn’t let Jon stand his ground.

Jon pulls away, breathless, lips parted, and just looks at Tim, eyes hungrily searching every corner of his face. “Alright, then,” he says, nodding once. 

“I’m done talking,” Tim says, voice hoarse, running a hand back over his head, standing up, and locking himself in the bathroom.

He’s going to die tomorrow. He knows that now. Something flicked it from possibility to certainty. Tim was never much of a mystic before everything went wrong, but he could always feel inevitability in his bones. That heavy feeling. Upright falling. All the weight in the world sliding over him. He felt it before Danny. Before Prentiss. Before Not-Sasha. Now.

So, fine. He might as well do more than  _ sort of _ burn. He might as well make it fucking spectacular.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3 All feedback is hugely appreciated!  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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